Inevitable DeAtH
by Phanfan925
Summary: For Nov. 11th. WW1, told from the perspective of Matthew Williams. Oneshot/Songfic set to the song "Mama" by "My Chemical Romance".


**Summary: **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Axis Powers Hetalia**

**Originally a songfic to "Mama" by "My Chemical Romance", lyrics have been removed, however~**

**Made for November 11th, 2014, 100 years after the end of World War 1. Unfortunately, the fic arrived a day late.**

**Rating: T (language, intense violence, gore, war-like situations, dark thoughts, and psychological damage)**

**Fandom: Hetalia**

**Characters: Canada, England, France, America**

**War is not a pretty or glorious thing, as many soldiers soon discovered upon their entry in combat. Canadians were not the exception the second they landed in Europe and had a taste of their first battle. This fan fiction is set during World War 1, and illustrates that war is not for the faint of heart, or even the strong or heart. In fact, it isn't for anyone, only the sadistic and unstable. **

**(I would recommend listening to the song "Mama" and the reading the poem "In Flander's Field's" either before or after reading the fan fiction.)Enjoy~**

**(Note: Please excuse any possible historical inaccuracies. I do my best, but I'm not entirely perfect. Also, this fic is written in a style that is partially picked up from the one-woman play "Adult Child, Dead Child" ((which I am learning to perform)). It is written in a disjointed, repetitious manner to portray insanity and poor mental health. It may seem obnoxious for some.)**

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In the hellish trenches of Ypres, Matthew Williams huddled, listening to the shells explode almost atop his head. He felt as though his head and ear-drums may explode from the constant and relentless shelling that he'd been enduring. There is nothing more terrifying than being shelled. You simply sit in your hole, body racked with uncontrollable tremors, while you wait and pray to God almighty that the next one doesn't blow you apart. It would make even the bravest of men piss their pants without a second thought.

**_BOOM_**

**_boom._**

**_BWOOM!_**

Some feel and sound closer than others. Some echo off in the distance, a safe ways away, providing him with a false sense of security... While others collide with the ground only a few mere metres away, emitting screams from the Earth as she is blown asunder. Sometimes you can even feel the debris nick your cheek, and you hope that it's just dirt or a stone and not shrapnel. Cursed, _fucking_ shrapnel...

_**...**_

There's no escape. Nothing. Just sitting in these damn holes. Can't run. Can't be a coward. Can't even _think _of being a deserter. Matthew can't bear the idea, or even the _thought_ of leaving his men. He'd be nothing more than dirt, in their eyes, in his _own _eyes, and in Arthur's...

Death. Inevitable. These two words both automatically belong in the same sentence. They are like lovers, destined to be eternally wed. Sealed with a kiss.

Of death.

And inevitability.

A kiss of death and inevitability. Haha, how fitting.

**BWOOOM!**

_When will they give it a rest? They've being going at it for hours... If they don't stop soon, I might as well go deaf, or insane._

Canada could hear scattered and muffled whimpers from the man next to him. What was he, sixteen? Younger? Considering how young he looked, he was holding up pretty well. He wasn't even a man, but a boy. Just a boy. What was he doing here? Had he faked his age, like some of the others Matthew had encountered? Well, if that was the case, he was most certainly regretting his decision now.

He's a handsome boy. Probably has a mummy, or a girl back home. Someone who kissed him on his way, wishing him luck and good fortune on the train. A kiss of death. A kiss that bid him return, but had unwittingly doomed him. For a kiss of death does not bring life. ...Matthew hoped that if he died, he would die soon, and quickly. No pain. Just death. Inevitable death. Ha. If only Matthew was that lucky.

**...boom...**

**...**

...It stopped...

It's done.

No, not done. False hope. False security. They never give up. It's never that easy. But for now, Matthew will rest. Or, he'll try to rest. He never sleeps anymore. Likely, he'll end up doing what he does every night; staying up all night on look-out, hunkering down in the mud. Paranoid. Watching them. The men on the other side of no-man's land. The _enemy._

_Or are they?_

Matthew can remember the first German he killed. He had warm brown eyes and a kindly face, marred by war. Matthew shot him six times before he regained his bearings and realised he was already dead. He had died by the first bullet. The other five had been wasted lead.

Then came the second. Canada had bayonetted him in close-combat, and then slowly caught his body, gently resting his head on a mound of dirt amidst the chaos of the charge. He had watery eyes of blue-gray and a proud, noble face that had been equally twisted by the horrors of war... into a mask. They all wore masks, now. It didn't matter who you were. They all wore masks. Masks crafted by War.

_Maybe _**War**_ is the enemy. She is the great mother. She gave birth to Death, who married Inevitability, who spawned devils in their place. _

More had followed, yielding countless graves. Screams that had abruptly ended upon death, but echoed continuously in Canada's tortured cranium. **Fact**: killing hurts worse than being killed. Canada hates this fact. Hates it. Maybe if _he_ could die, it would stop hurting.

**_..._**

It's a rare moment of calm. The men are doing what they always do in moments such as these... writing. They've retrieved those precious scraps of paper and ink, and write to their loved ones. It's their only real connection and means of communication to the outside world. A world that seems so far away, now... Canada catches a glimpse of one man's message-in-progress...

_"Hello, Mother. I love you, and I hope you are well. Myself? I'm doing quite swell, actually. The officers are really nice, and we always get the best food. Though I must admit that I miss you and Father dearly..."_

Immediately Matthew feels ashamed, and looks away. The letter is private, and although Matthew's eyes had stumbled upon it quite by accident, he still feels... dirty. The men _lie. _It's not an uncommon practice. They lie to their parents, their wives, their children. To protect them. To shield them. From Death. Inevitable Death. They are all practiced liars at this point. They pretend courage, and happiness...

_**...**_

They're about to go "over-the-top", and Matthew is with them. The men have gathered near the edges of the trenches, by the ladders. They await for the signal, their faces set into their familiar masks. Some men are better at their facades than others...

_**...**_

A man with mousey brown hair is hyperventilating near Matthew's shoulder. Canada considers telling him to pull himself together, but compassion stops him.

The man-boy mutters, his breathing escalating and his face turning white as the blood drains out of it.

"Je vais mourir, j-je v-vais mourir..."

__I'm going to die, I'm going to die... I'll die.__

Matthew automatically translates the man's words. French comes to him as easily as English, if not easier. He is taken aback for a spell. Compared to the rest of the nation, those from Quebec have been less willing to send their boys over to fight "someone else's war"... Canada can't say that he blames them. There's been talk... talk of bringing back conscription. Canada knows that if that happens, they'll be a divide on his hands. He doesn't want that. He doesn't want his already shattered self to be rendered even more conflicted. He'll go insane, torn two ways... Francophone, Anglophone.

Haha. French. English. Francais, Anglais... WHAT DOES IT MATTER?! WHAT does it _MATTER_ anymore!? IN THE FACE OF INEVITABLE _DEATH. _

**_..._**

The whistle is blown. They attack. They die. They kill. Matthew finds the man who'd been muttering in French in a ditch the day after. Stone cold. Alone in an unfamiliar, old land. Dead, miles away from home.

He's staring at him... with envy. _Poor, lucky bastard. _Canada wonders if he went to heaven or hell, and for one foolish second he feels like they are already living in hell. Nothing the afterlife can offer could be worse. But he still sends a quick prayer that the man will be at peace.

**_..._**

Matthew received a letter from Alfred that day, asking how he was. Alfred's still at home, not truly knowing the pain that these new kinds of warfare are wreaking. ...Yet. The country of France is already ravaged. The _soldiers_ are ravaged. _Matthew_ is ravaged... He lies. Matthew lies. Canada gets another letter from Arthur. He's fighting not far from where Canada is stationed. He asks the same questions as Alfred. And Matthew lies. He lies again. He lies like his men lie to their mothers. Canada tells him that he's fine. That everything is just fucking fine. Just hunky dory...

**_ ..._**

Gas.

Gas is a real bitch.

Matthew is starting to think that he hates gas more than shrapnel.

The Canadians are the second to get hit with it hard after the French. And it's devastating. This is still a new kind of technology, so they don't have much real defense against it. Matthew can see it creeping towards him... Inevitable. Fog of white. Inevitably moving forward with deadly purpose...

Inevitable Death.

You can't stop it. You can't run. You're holed up in your trench.

Matthew can hear the screams already. His own cries join and mingle within the eerie chorus. His lungs and eyes are on fire. Burning. Burning in his skull. Burning in his ribs. This is death. No, this is worse than death. This is its own brand of torture. This gas is a master of disguise. It looks like fog, but it's really acid, waiting to pounce on unsuspecting soldiers...

"AAUUUGH-GAH!GAH!"

"SOMEONE SAVE ME-_HAAACK_!"

"FUCKFUCK!"

"I CAN'T SEE! I CAN'T _SEE_!"

"OH MY GOD!"

"AAH!"

"JIMMY?! Don't worry, I'll help you, Jimmy! Just hold on, I'm comin-AAAAAAAAARRRRRRRG-!"

"WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!"

"SHIT! I DON'T WANT TO DIE! SHIT! **_SHIT!"_**

"M-MOM!? Mom..."

At that point Matthew loses the ability to breathe. He wishes his sight would hurry up and go already, too. He doesn't like what he sees. Men clutching their eyes, coughing uncontrollably, running around in the confusion. ...While the gas is at it, why can't it do something useful and take away his hearing as well. He doesn't want to hear the wailing anymore...

_**...**_

It all goes dark.

It hurts to breathe.

Canada wakes up blind. His eyelids part, but only darkness greets him. At first he's in a whirling panic, sitting up and springing to his feet, and then stumbling to the ground because of disorientation.

There's yelling, and someone forces him to the ground. Canada suspects foes. He struggles wildly, like a feral animal caught in a trap. ...But then there's a soothing hand and voice. Someone is putting a cloth over his eyes, holding it steady, and someone else is breathing soothing words in French.

_"_Mon petite_, mon petite... _sh-sh... _hush..."_

"_P-papa_?"

"And don't forget me, lad..."

Canada finally recognises the rough hand in combination with the gruff voice. Arthur is here. Arthur came for him. Francis is here. Francis cares that he's trying so hard to help...

Overwhelmed and crying with his ruined eyes, Matthew tries to force the hand and cloth away, illogically wanting to look at them with his own eyes, ignoring the impossibility of the want... the _need... _Arthur's hand is unyielding, though.

"Shh... sh... don't try and open them, lad."

"Oui, your pretty eyes need time to heal, Matthieu..."

The tears soak through the cloth.

**_..._**

Killers.

This war has made them into killers. It doesn't matter what side you're on. It doesn't matter what you supposedly fight for. Everyone is equally guilty of some crime. Killers. Doomed to damnation. Damned to hell. That is their only destiny. Or at least, that's what Matthew finds himself thinking.

Vimy Ridge.

He'd heard stories of this place. Of this literal fortress set up by the Germans. How the French and English had tried and failed so desperately to seize this vantage point, and Canada can see why.

They're perfectly exposed, out here. But Canada knows that his best tacticians and strategists have cooked up something brilliant... A huge dig. A creeping barrage. A surprise attack. They'd never see them coming. Hopefully, they're not sending one hundred thousand men to their deaths...

_**...**_

He did it. He did what Francis and Arthur could not. But at the cost of over three thousand lives. It's a high, heavy cost. Better than expected, but a high cost... just the same. For those men were not numbers on a casualty list. They were people. People with lives, with families, hopes, dreams... All for naught. Canada tries to convince himself that it isn't so. That these men's dreams will live on with their comrades.

But that is a blatant lie.

But Matthew's gotten pretty skilled at lying.

And now that Canada has supposedly "proven" himself, Arthur's people are having no troubles with sending him into even more dangerous situations. Blood baths. The Canadians are strong, the Canadians took Vimy. The impossible ridge. Make them our shock troops. They can hold their own.

And they do.

_**...**_

Canada decided to take a break from the fighting, be a field medic instead. Only for a week. He knew it was selfish, but it wasn't much of a respite anyways. He was still in the thick of combat. Still in danger almost twenty-four seven with the fighting men. Only this way, he could _help_ people, instead of kill them...

**Fact**: killing hurts worse than being killed.

This still holds true, and to Matthew especially. He's done. He's done with killing. He's tired. But the war isn't. ...The war is yet to be concluded.

_**...**_

Being a medic involves him dealing with injuries and mutilations that Matthew would rather forget. Critical casualties add to his nightmares... Nightmares are his ever constant companions, now.

These poor boys. They'd been so eager in the beginning. So willing and ready to take up the Union Jack and fight for the Queen. They'd flocked to the stations to sign up. But now... they must've been feeling quite foolish. This was no glorious struggle. This was shaking in the mud, waiting for death. Inevitable death. It wasn't even a good death...

**...**

"I never wanted to go," said one of the men to Matthew.

Matthew paused, putting down his rations. He knew this guy. His name was William, Willy for short. All the men looked up to him. He was a decorated, experienced soldier, who'd proven himself many a time.

"Then why did you?" asked Matthew, raising an eyebrow. Willy shuddered, shrinking in on himself. A once proud specimen of a soldier, brought low by a barrage of terror.

"My mother. She pressured me into it. She told me it would make my father proud. Now it seems silly. My dead father, proud of me... Why should I _care_? 'All young men must do their share', she said... Heh, not only that, but I could get all the girls I wanted. All I would need to do is flash my uniform... I justified it in my head. But now I'm trapped. With no way out. Until I die, or this bloody war ends..."

"...Doesn't that apply to us all?"

"Yes, but you won't die. You're the exception. I've watched you, Williams. There's no way a man can survive what you've gone through. It's a miracle that even _I'm_ still standing, and I haven't been in half as much shit as you. You were there at Passchendaele... and Vimy. So much more."

"...Don't you worry, Willy," Matthew kindly assured the man who was confiding in him. "You'll make it out, with me. From now on, you're my buddy. I'll watch your back, if you promise to watch mine. Call me Matthew from now on."

Willy smiled brokenly, pathetically trying to pull himself together, and blushing with embarrassment at his minor breakdown. "...Thank you, Matthew."

_**...**_

"Where are you from, Willy?"

"The East Coast."

"Where about?"

"Prince Edward Island."

"Ah, I've been there. A beautiful place, as is the rest of the country. But PEI is one of the jewels of the land, and I should know... I've travelled all over."

"I always wanted to travel... I wanted to see Europe. Now I'm here... Heh, the circumstances could be better, though."

"Haha, I like you, Willy. You've got a sense of humour beneath that tough-guy façade, though it's a tad dark."

_**...**_

These trenches. They are Matthew's personal heaven and hell, now. They are his hell, but they are also his haven. Because they protect him. They are his only remaining shield between himself and the bullets and shells. They may not stop the gas, but they have gas-masks, now... Canada hates it. He _hates_ that he has been forced to stoop this low. Running like a rabbit for cover, back to his hole... Forced to sleep there and patiently wait for death. Inevitable Death.

The trenches could be worse... The worst part wasn't the mud, the rats, or even the gas. It was the smell. The stench of rotting flesh. The bodies that neither side had been able to retrieve. It clogs up Matthew's nose with the scent of death. Inevitable death. And the men know that they'll be next. They'll just be another one of those bodies, out there in no-man's land... slowly fading away into dust, and spreading their ghastly smell to the downtrodden and demoralised survivors.

Canada sends individual letters to the other commonwealth countries that have travelled overseas. He wants to know how they're holding up. They can't be much better than him. No doubt they've been suffering... He wishes he could relieve them. He wishes he could relieve everyone, no matter who they may be. Englishman, Australian, Indian, German, Austro-Hungarian, Italian... They are too many nations involved. This has escalated into more than just a "Great War". This is... a _World War_.

Afterwards, he writes Francis and Arthur their own letters. And Alfred... Alfred has joined the war. He joined some time back. Canada has yet to see him, but he knows he's there. He can _feel _it... Call it a twin-connection-thing, but Canada's brother feels closer. And in distress. Matthew wishes he was with him. Wishes they could comfort each other. Oh, well... At least he has Willy.

**_..._**

Running. Running. Running.

Running is what keeps you alive, but counterproductively Matthew can only run _towards_ the danger... Towards the enemy firing upon him. Closer to the enraged enemy that is defending themselves. And so he keeps running, acting against his frenzied instinct to go the opposite direction... feeding upon the adrenaline response his body is enacting amidst the calamity.

Willy runs with him. He looks confident, sure of himself, or as much as anyone can be in such a scene. Matthew knows it's an act. Willy is an even better pretender that he is.

...

And then Willy's face is blown open.

Death.

Is.

Inevitable.

Matthew was wrong. Death isn't inevitable. It is soon. It is at your front door, knocking to be let in.

_**...**_

Matthew tries to kill himself for the first time a week later.

A mercy killing. Putting down the dog.

The country is cracked beyond repair. He's done. He needs to feel the darkness for a bit. A bullet to the brain will give him that darkness for at least a few days, right? At least until his body heals.

He looks at the gun, putting it to his head. He's killed so many with this very gun... One twitch of his finger over the trigger and it will be over. Quick. Done. Darkness. He craves it. He needs it. HE NEEDS IT.

**_..._**

Alfred stops him. He's suddenly there, out of the blue, and Matthew doesn't know how. _How...?_ But Alfred is somehow here, and he stops him. _Alfred stops him._ Pulls the weapon away with strong but gentle fingers. Hugs him tight. They cry together. Matthew tells him in touches, not words, that he is happy to see him.

Sobbing, Alfred murmurs and stutters out the names of fellows he's seen die, and describes the ones who's names he does not know. Matthew joins him, mourning Willy, and all the others who met their ends because of all powerful, all dominating Lady War. Poor, poor Willy.

Tonight, Matthew goes drinking with the Americans. They've seen some shit. You can see it in their stare. It's empty and blank. Canada reaches out to them. After a bit of excessive encouragement from Alfred, they reach back with welcoming arms. The alcohol drowns away their worries, and they sing together. They sing joyously of how they are damned. And they don't care.

**_..._**


End file.
